A Day in the Life of a Hunger Games Tribute
by JasmineLaBelle
Summary: There's really no background on a lot of the tributes of the Hunger Games...so I made my own.
1. Glimmer

_**I always pictured Glimmer as a beautiful girl with a tragic, unhappy life before the Games. Some of the chapters will be about people after the Games, and some will take place way before they even got picked for the Games, like Glimmer's, and some after the Games, like Finnick's. And I don't think I will be writing about the tributes in order by their districts, it'll just be whoever I get the ideas for first.**_

_**A day in the life of Glimmer, tribute of the 74**__**th**__** annual Hunger Games. **_

_**Enjoy. ;) Jasmine**_

I sighed myself awake and rolled over in my bed. Another day where I had to pretend to have something to live for, even though I obviously didn't. Who needs anything to live for in District One, where even the poorest of the poor are too rich to give a shit? I sighed again and walked to my window where I could see the sun's early morning rays struggling over the horizon.

Walking down the hallway, I saw one of our "maids", Chalcedony, emerge from my father's bedroom door. I wasn't stupid. I knew Chalcedony was one of my father's mistresses, and he knew that I knew. It was kind of an unspoken secret between us: I pretend not to know, he pretends that it doesn't happen. She was one of the better ones, though. She always tries to leave before I wake up, but that rarely ever happens-I get up with the sun. As she walked past me, she averted her eyes, and I averted mine. I noticed Chalcedony was wearing khaki shorts and a tank top-which seemed unusual for District One's chilly morning air. At least she had the decency to put _some_ clothes on- some of my father's "friends" think it's acceptable to walk around in my house in their underwear during breakfast. Talk about a disturbing visual. Chalcedony slipped quietly through our back door, clutching her waist-length blonde hair to the side.

I walked quietly into the kitchen; no doubt my father was still asleep, even though his door is so soundproof it would take an earthquake to wake him up-and maybe not even that. I stepped outside onto the gray stone sidewalk that led from our front door to the road. As I walked the length of our driveway, the thick canopy of trees above me let loose a few drops of the cold morning rain, raising gooseflesh onto my bare arms. I shrugged into the jacket that was draped over my arm and finished the rest of the walk to the street.

I stopped at my favorite café and ordered a small breakfast cake, then walked along the boardwalk that showcased the beautiful ocean that bordered our district. We're not fishermen like District 4; no fish swim in these seas, only treasures, waiting to be turned into luxury items for the Capital. As usual, I got waves from the friendly pearl divers along the docks-and stares from the creepy ones. By the time I made it to my school the sun was just getting comfortable in the sky; the moist gray morning still hung over my head.

Like always, I was the first one at school, and I made my way to the basement of the building, one of the only places in District One that wasn't spotless. Here was where old books, old desks, and old chairs were stored, covered in a fine layer of dust. Really, the whole space was covered in that same layer of dust-except for one trail of footsteps that started at the basement door and ended at another. I opened the brown wooden door, and ascended the long spiral staircase that went up the inside of the sidewall of the building and ended in a large attic. My studio. My space. My haven. I came here every day, and over the years, had eventually made it my own: Restoring splintering easels to sturdy shining ones, soaking paint-covered brushes to expose the gleaming mahogany handles underneath. I was, as far as I knew, the only person who knew about this place; if someone else did they stayed well out of the way, knowing that it always has been, is, and will be my place, and no one else's. My artwork hung on the walls; though only two of them. I liked to think of myself as a true artist; one that doesn't finish a painting or sculpture in a week and _think_ it is perfect; I will work on a creation for _months_ until I _know_ it is perfect.

I turned to the small alcove I used as my painting corner, towards my current project. I swept the canvas cover off my easel and looked at oil painting I had been working on for the past month: a portrait of a weeping woman. I looked at the faded photograph pinned to the side of my easel: my inspiration, the only proof that I had a mother at some point in my life. I never knew what the hell happened to my mother; never met her; never saw a picture of her, except for this one. This was my special possession, the only one I truly cared about. Most people would look at the photo and wonder how the painting is supposed to be modeled after it; the painting is of a weeping woman, the picture of a woman giving a small smile. But most of those people aren't able to look at photographs the way I am. They're not able to capture the person's real feeling, or find contradicting signs on their face. Like the way I can find lines of sadness on my mother's face, even though her mouth is smiling in the picture, her eyes are not. Most people would look at my painting and say that it's long past done, but to me it's not even close to being finished. There's so much more to add: the slightly differencing shades of colors in my mother's hair, the spiraling kaleidoscope of her sparkling blue eyes, the very, very faint lines of sadness etched into her face; the only thing that gave away how unhappy she was with her life. Of course, I'm sure no one else noticed them, with her pretending to be happy and having the time of her life with her new husband, disguising how unhappy and depressed she really was. How do I know she was unhappy? No one told me. I can read it in her face. And I'm sure that news of my conception only made it worse: now she had to be responsible for another life, as well as her own? How does one take care of another if they don't even have the will to take care of themselves first? I suppose the reality became too much for her, and that's why she left, leaving my father and I to fend for ourselves. Even if I had the chance, I had no desire to meet her, not because she left me, but because I just know her sadness would add onto mine, and I just don't know how I would be able to bear that.

I opened my large selection of oil paints, mixing a light gray with a deep purple and adding shadow and depth to the background of the painting. Self-consciously, I added the color to one of the larger streaks of tears on the face of my painting. As I delved more into my mother's unhappiness, I dove deeper into mine as well. I looked at the picture one more time and wasn't able to bear it; I suddenly slashed my wrists with the sharp silver end sticking out of my paintbrush. I whirled around with my eyes closed, holding my arms out, letting the physical pain overtake the emotional. I collapsed against the wall and sat there for who knows how long, letting my wrists bleed themselves dry, drowning out my thoughts of suicide and other horrible things.

I suddenly jumped back up and started madly painting. As I added more colors and tears to the painting, I found myself crying a few thousand tears of my own.

….

By the time I finally left my studio, the school day was halfway in session. I still had time to get to one of my classes and be there for a half hour yet, but I decided to wait it out and start my school day the next period. It's not like the teachers will care-most of the kids don't show up half of the time anyway for school.

Instead of waiting in a quiet, empty classroom like usual, I went into the bathroom and directed my attention to the cuts I had made on my wrist. They were ugly, jagged red cuts, and the severed skin on the sides flapped open to reveal more blood, dried and wet. I pressed wet paper towels to each, looked to the ceiling, and tried to keep a secondary round of tears from overtaking my eyes.

I didn't know what to do. With my life, with anything. I wanted my life to end, though I could not bring myself to actually end it myself, though I had thought about it plenty of times. I envied those who were reaped for the Hunger Games; and I envied them more when I heard their cannon blast. I suppose I could volunteer as tribute, but that would only draw more unnecessary attention to myself, which I got enough of here.

I had nothing to live for here. No one to live for. Though people often thought they did, no one truly loved me. And I loved no one in return. My father was never someone I really _loved; _he had just always been in the background of my life, inserting input when needed or wanted. I never needed to go to school; no one really does in District One, where everyone has so much money from inheritances anyway that there are never any needs for jobs. Except for the pearl miners and diamond miners of course, but those are mostly filled by teenage boys who have nothing better to do or young men who actually want to do something or go somewhere with their lives.

I finally left the bathroom, bumping right into the girl that I guess I would or could call my best friend, more or less.

"Oh, hi, Belle," I said dismissively.

"Oh! Hey Glimmer!" Belle said perkily. "I haven't seen you all day, where were you?"

"Oh, you know, around…"

"Well, anyway, I just _love_ your shirt!" she gushed.

I glanced down at my outfit. I didn't even remember what I put on this morning; I never did. Every morning I just pulled on the first clothes I could find and somehow they always looked good. Somehow _I_ always looked good, which was definitely always contrary to how I always felt inside.

"Glimmer! There you are! I wanted to talk to you." Cutter, the most popular guy in school, also walked up to me. Everyone who was in the hallway was staring at us. "Hey," Cutter said, ignoring the nosy eyes. "I was wondering if you would maybe like to go with me to the spring dance next weekend?"

"Um," I started. "I don't really go to those things." The hallway was silent. Cutter, rejected? The only motion I could detect were Cutter's eyes moving frantically around in their sockets.

"Um, um..." he stammered. "Okay. That's fine, I'll uh…see you around later?" he asked, giving me a halfhearted wave. I nodded quickly and turned away from the prying eyes of my classmates.

"Glimmer! What the hell was that?" Belle cried when we were in place for our next class. "You two could have been _perfect_ for each other!"

"I don't know," I said, shaking my head. "I just don't want to be with him. I don't want to be with anybody."

Suddenly Belle noticed my wrists. "Glimmer!" she shrieked. She looked at me, a horrified expression on her face.

I shrugged one shoulder. "I hate my life; you know that," I stated simply.

"But why? You could have the perfect life, Glimmer! You could have anything or anyone you want! I don't understand-"

"It's more complicated than that, Belle," I said. "I don't _want_ anything or anyone. I just want my life to be over."

She opened her mouth to reply, but didn't get a chance when our teacher came in.

"Hello, class," she said, waving her hand in our general direction. "Did any of you do your homework?"

No one raised their hands, as usual. The teacher pulled out a clipboard and scribbled something on it. "Okaay, should we move on?"

What class was this, anyway? I hadn't bothered to remember. I glanced at the cover of the textbook the teacher had passed out to us. Ah. Country Info, that's right.

For the next hour and a half I slouched in my seat, drowning out the lesson on the different types of District Seven trees, ignoring all the notes and whispers Belle offered me. But most importantly, I made the decision. The decision to kill myself.

…...

That next night, when I finally arrived home from aimlessly wandering the deserted backstreets of District One, I crept into my huge bathroom, though I don't know why I was being so quiet, my father wasn't even home-probably out with one of the maids again, like every night.

I stripped off my clothes and ran the bath until it was a little more halfway full and at a comfortable warm temperature. I stepped in and laid my head against the bath pillow and closed my eyes for a moment, letting my skin soak in the silky warm bathwater. I laid there for a couple more minutes before reaching up to the tub tray and taking down my razor. I accidentally dropped it, causing it to scrape down my shin, drawing blood. Scarlet beads of blood popped up along the cut and started to slide down my leg and drop into the water, dissolving away and turning the water pink.

I took the razor and slashed one of the larger veins in each of my feet, blood pouring from each wound. Then I cut the veins in my wrists, hands, and crooks in my elbow. Finally I dug the blade deep into my skin and drew across the length of my forehead, blood blinding my eyes.

The pain made me drop the razor blade and bang my head against the side of the tub. I slid down into the water, my blood slowly draining itself from my body. Silent tears washed down my face, bloodied from my lifeblood that filled my eyes and nose.

As I slipped farther and farther into unconsciousness, my bathroom door banged open and the last thing that I heard was "GLIMMER!"

Then Belle started to scream, and I blacked out.

…...

_**The playlist I listened to while writing this chapter was Innocent, Haunted, Long Live, Enchanted, Jar of Hearts, Hide and Seek, and Roslyn.**_


	2. Cato

**First of all, I wanted to say that I'm sorry for the lack of chapter…..my mom took my laptop away until I brought up my science grade….But now I've got a B and my laptop back! And I know some of Cato's social life is….questionable, but that's just how I picture him. He's just a questionable person, you know?**

_**A day in the life of Cato, tribute of the 74**__**th**__** annual Hunger Games.**_

**Enjoy! ;) Jasmine**

The early-morning sunlight cut into my eyelids and I woke up. It took me a second to register where I was and who I was with-I was in the bedroom of that girl I met a couple of days ago….what was her name?

I looked at the blonde hair that was draped over my arm. Annicie. That was her name. Annicie Robinson. Suddenly I got the sensation of being too hot. I quickly swept her hair and the thick blanket off of me, and slid silently off her bed. She never woke. Good.

I crept down the stairs of Annicie's apartment stairs, careful not to wake anyone up. _Especially _her father. He hated me. The last thing I needed was him knowing I had been in his daughter's bed the night before.

As I approached the main floor, I craned my neck around the wall to make sure the coast was clear. I was greeted with a clearing of a throat and the shake of a newspaper. Shit. Annicie's father was already up. He hadn't seen me yet, so if I could just sneak past him and get to the front door….

"Cato?"

Shit. Again.

Trying to sound polite, I nodded quickly in his direction and slowly said, "Morning, Mr.…Robinson…"

Mr. Robinson ignored my failed attempts at chivalry and instead asked, "What the _hell_ are you doing in my house?"

"Um…" As I tried unsuccessfully to think of an answer for his question, a girly voice floated down the stairs.

"Cato….Why did you leave me alone? I was so cold, you were like a space heater-"

Annicie stopped when she saw her father. Her unfinished sentence hung in the air like a flirty rain cloud.

Mr. Robinson's face seemed to have doubled in size when he saw her. "Annicie?" he screeched. "What is this…this _vermin," _he said gesturing in my direction. "Doing in this house?"

"Oh, um…."Annicie tried as fruitlessly as me to search for an answer. "I thought you said my friends were welcome to sleep over," she whispered weakly, her knees trembling.

"Do _not _use sarcasm with me, young lady!" Mr. Robinson yelled. "Where in your mind did you even…even _think _that this would be okay? After all I've done for you…I thought we raised you right! Do you think that pulling this stunt would get you into a good school? Would it help you at _all _to gain our respect? What were you _thinking?"_

Mr. Robinson then turned towards me. Annicie sank into a chair, obviously glad that the focus wasn't on her anymore.

"And _you!" _ Mr. Robinson shouted at me, spitting mad. "From the moment I saw you I knew you would be trouble! I knew that you were bad news! But did I say anything? No! I kept my mouth shut, knowing you made my daughter happy. I wasn't going to say anything; I figured you would be gone soon enough! I graciously let you see my daughter, but then you do something like this!"

"Sir, I-"

"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

I slunk towards the door, sneaking a look at Annicie. She was looking despairingly at me, raising her eyebrows. I shrugged and stepped out of the door, knowing I would never talk to her again. Sure, that seems a little coldhearted of me, but that's how it always was. Meet a girl, spend the night, get yelled at by her father, leave her house, ignore her for the rest of my life, meet another girl, and start the cycle all over again. Sorry, but that's just how it is with me.

I walked aimlessly alongside the cars that drove people to their jobs and other responsibilities that withheld the people of District Two. The Nut, in the near distance, towered over our village, making the surrounding mountains seem like molehills. I lived in one of the biggest villages of District Two; this is where the Nut and the Justice Building were housed; as well as where the reaping for the annual Hunger Games was held. Two, as small a district as it was, couldn't have its whole population at the reapings, what with all its villages being spread out across the mountains, so what happened was the tributes were picked beforehand, and a letter was sent to the families to make sure that the selected kids were at the reaping. Of course, to keep it secret, many letters were sent out, so a ton of kids got letters asking for them to be at the reaping. None of them knew who the true tribute was. Anyone who was planning on volunteering was expected to be at the reaping as well. And this year, I was going to be one of those volunteers. I was going to be _the _volunteer.

As I walked, I found myself heading towards a trashy bar that had been in business for generations. How it stayed in business escaped most people; there was barely anyone ever in there. I found myself a frequent visitor, though.

I walked into the dimly lit bar and was hit by its familiar smell of must, stale beer, and mold. The same drunken bartender was slouched over behind the counter, snoring. I nudged him with my elbow. "Aetee! Get up!"

He awoke with a huge snore and then looked at me with a confused look on his face. "M-may I take your order…." He muttered, fighting off a yawn.

I punched him and he gave a start. "Aetee! It's Cato, you fatass!"

"Oh." That didn't really seem to unfazed him. I took a couple shots while Aetee fell asleep again. I also stole fifty bucks from the cash register before I left.

I should probably be going to school, but, as usual, I blew it off, just like pretty much everything else scheduled into my life. Except for Hunger Games training. I _never _blow off training.

I ambled through the tall double doors opening into our village's gym. The first half of the building was a regular gym, with people working out. But once you get past that part, you get to the parts of the building reserved for Hunger Games training. A bunch of kids were already training in the main room: throwing knives, lifting weights, chucking spears, sword fighting, boxing, you know, the works. I walked into the room that was kind of like a locker room for weapons. I grabbed my sword that I stored there and walked into the main training room where Liner was waiting for me with his sword. Liner had been my fighting partner since we both started training, which was probably when we were each about ten years old and could barely lift a bow, and definitely not a sword.

"Hey," Liner greeted me. "Been to see Aetee?"

I nodded, sharpening my blade against the turning stone block in the corner of the sword fighting area. "Drunk as shit, like usual. I honestly don't know how he's not dead yet. I mean, come on, he lives off beer and stale crackers."

"Well, he is kind of already dead….in a way…." Liner said. "Anyway, he annoys the hell out of me."

"Me, too," I agreed. "I wish he _was _dead." A smile slowly spread across my face. "You know, we could go to Jacken that since we're planning on volunteering for the Games this year, we wanted to practice our killing strategies since we haven't had much practice lately…"

Liner smiled and nodded.

Jacken was this big buff guy in his mid-thirties who was the Head of Training here. He won the Games about fifteen years back and encouraged all types and degrees of violence while training. Liner and I found him in his office, where he was signing some stupid-ass paperwork. I accidentally kicked the door, and at the sound Jacken's head whipped up and his eyes shot daggers in our direction.

"Liner. Cato. Come in." he said in his deep, gravelly voice. Shit, he was intimidating.

Jacken rose from his chair and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows at us.

"Sir, Cato and I-" Liner began.

"Stop," Jacken interrupted, annoyed. "Quit beating around the bush, I don't want to sit through all your extra shit. So be blunt and tell me what you came here for or shut the fuck up and leave."

"Well alright, shit!" Liner said, and looked at me.

"Liner and I want to kill someone for training purposes," I stated.

Jacken chuckled. "Ah, the young thirst for blood. Alright, boys, I give you my permission, but just so I don't look bad, I should probably ask you if this person you had in mind was a being who is totally worthless to the thriving of our district?"

Liner, being his usual smartass self, smirked and said, "Well, Jacken, would you consider that old bartender Aetee to be worthless?"

Jacken laughed. "Aetee! That _that _is a worthless person! Alright, boys, I give you my permission. I would suggest doing it tonight when it's dark, though, so no one sees you."

"Duh," said Liner.

His reply from Jacken was a punch in the mouth.

…

After talking to Jacken we went back into the main training area. I walked over to the knife-throwing station, where a fierce-looking brunette was throwing knives at a target.

"Clove," I greeted her casually, leaning up against the wall next to her. She didn't even glance my way. As she drew back her arm to let the knife fly, I caught her wrist and looked her right in the face. Her green eyes narrowed.

"What." She said flatly.

"How are you?" I asked.

"Alright." She held my gaze unwaveringly.

I turned my head and looked at the large number of arrows sticking in the bulls-eye of Clove's target and raised my eyebrows at her.

"Woooow," I said, acting sarcastically impressed. "Of all people , I never thought _you _ would be able to get _one _knife in, much less _any." _

Suddenly, with a flick of her wrist, Clove's knife was at my throat.

"Listen up," she growled in my face. "I don't like sarcasm. Especially from you. I am the best of the best and would beat you to a _pulp _in the arena." She released my shirt. "Got it?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, sure, whatever. You know, Liner and I are going tonight to, ah, _take care _of that old bartender Aetee down the road, if you want to come."

Clove rolled her eyes and turned away. "Come find me when you actually find something _fun _to do," she said as the point of her knife hit the target.

"What do you mean? Killing bartenders is the best!"

"No, actually, killing bartenders is _boring. _They're too drunk to even know what's happening. You wan to kill someone, make it someone who actually cries and yells for help and makes the killing _fun."_

I shrugged. "Whatever. Your loss."

…

That night, Liner and I snuck down the darkened road towards Aetee's bar. The bell on the unlocked door tinkled as we walked in. Aetee was slumped over on one of the tables.

Liner walked over to him. "Aetee. Get up."

Aetee lifted his head, which had been lying in a puddle of beer. "Wha-?"

I sighed and rolled my eyes. Liner hit him hard on the head with the butt of his sword, sending Aetee sprawling onto the dirty floor. I crouched down and whispered, "Game over, old man," and slashed him right across his face.

A sickening chop told me without looking that Liner had cut off one of Aetee's hands. Blood seeped onto my feet. Without even glancing down, I brought the point of my blade up to the bottom tip of Aetee's right ear and dragged it in a semicircle around his face and ending at the bottom tip of his other ear. He was screaming in pain now. Usually I would scrape up his mouth, lips, and throat by now so he would shut up, but honestly, I really didn't care if anyone heard him. Everybody in the village hated him, after all.

"Okay, buddy, we'll make this part quick, alright?" I told him with mock sympathy. Liner and I both had our small daggers out and each held one over Aetee's ear.

"On the count of three," Liner said. "One, two-"

I brought my blade down hard, cutting off Aetee's right ear. "Whoops, I slipped," I said, smirking.

"Well, we can't have you be uneven, so…." Aetee's other ear was cut off, thanks to Liner's knife.

Liner and I stole the rest of Aetee's stock and anything else that we could find that looked to have some value.

As we left, the only thing I was thinking was _Clove was wrong. That _was _fun._

…

**Okay, everybody, so there's my second chapter. And even I'll say it; it wasn't that great. When I had the idea for this chapter, I pretty much only had the idea for the part where Cato was at Annicie's house, and I couldn't just have THAT for my chapter! That would be the most suckish chapter EVAH! Reviews, please! ;) Good or bad, I'll take 'em all! Love ya! Jasmine**


	3. Clove

**Okay, once again, it's Cato and Clove, they have suggestive conversations! DON'T JUDGE MEEEE! ;) And P.S. When Clove says something's gay, I'm not insulting or judging anyone, it just seems like something Clove would say. P.P.S! I picture Leila's hair like Lady Gaga's when she performed Judas on Ellen. ;)**

_**A day in the life of Clove, tribute of the 74**__**th**__** annual Hunger Games.**_

_**Enjoy! ;) Jasmine**_

My step-sister's annoyingly perky voice floated up the stairs, waking me up. I wasn't totally asleep; I was in that weird state where you can't figure out if you're asleep or awake. I groaned and turned over in my bed. It was Saturday, a day of sleeping in for most people. Except in this house. My father's never home; he goes to work even on the weekends and leaves me with his overly positive wife and her daughter, who look like they're from District One, not the inner cities of Two. My step-mother's an early riser anyway, and my sister likes to "save some of her beauty sleep for tomorrow." And me? I get up early for training. I was surprised to see that it was already almost ten o' clock; I never allow myself to sleep this late. My internal alarm clock usually wakes me up around eight so I can get to the training area early.

I pull on some basic training clothes and slip my favorite dagger through one of my belt loops. In the kitchen I find my step mother Marona, sipping a mug of tea by the sink and her daughter, Leila, laughing at the kitchen table with another one of her seemingly endless supply of friends. I tried to sneak through the kitchen as quietly as possible without them seeing me, but my stealthy escape was foiled when Marona said, "Good morning, Clove. How did you sleep?"

Leila and her friend whipped around to glare at me. "What are _you _doing here?" Leila asked, her eyes shooting daggers.

"Uh, I _live _here, you fat whore," I spat back.

"You…" Leila hissed, frantically starting to put her long blond hair in a ponytail, which she always did when she was mad.

"Leila!" Marona scolded her. "Let it go! You've sent plenty of scornful words towards Clove's way, yourself. Now go back to whatever you were doing and leave her alone!"

Marona smiled at me. "Have fun at your, ah, training, dear,"

"_Thank _you." On my way out I smirked at Leila when Marona wasn't looking.

Sometimes I think Marona likes me better than her own daughter. Maybe she just feels sorry for me. If she does, I don't know why. It's not like I really cared that my mom died. Okay, I know that sounds horrible, but I really don't. It's not like I ever knew her, she died when I was a baby. I never really had a mother figure, and didn't want one, especially when my father got remarried the first time to a bitch of a woman. Wow, did I talk him out of _that _mistake.

Marona was the second remarriage, the third wife, one that I couldn't really decide if she suited him or not. She's quiet, positive, and a mother who offered her care for me, whether I wanted it or not. Sometimes she comes in handy when she reprimands Leila, but usually she just annoys the hell out of me. She's…too hands-on. I mean, come on, take care of your own fricken daughter. I was fine before, and I'm fine now. Leave me the hell alone.

Now, Leila…she's another story. She's around my age, with annoyingly bright amber eyes and waist long blond hair. The first time you met her, you would automatically assume she's a visitor from One-not that anyone actually _visits. _With the blond hair, perfect skin, and impeccable fashion sense, she definitely belongs there. Her and Marona have no interest in participating in the Hunger Games, and have no idea why I'm so in love with training and preparing to volunteer next year. But to hell with them. They're only minor obstacles I need to overcome to reach my goal: the fame, the money, the house, and all the glory and pride that comes with winning the Hunger Games. I've been training for virtually my whole life, and I'm way past able to win. I'm planning on volunteering next year, when I'm seventeen.

By this time I had reached the entrance to the HG training area in the gym, which was already crowded with the serious trainers-kids in their upper teens training like dogs for their shot at being a Victor. I went to the weapon room, where all the public training weapons were kept. Pretty much everyone had one weapon that was theirs, like my dagger, but most of them still practiced with the other weapons that belonged to the training center. A lot of people kept their personal weapons locked up in the weapon locker room, but I never dare take my dagger out of my sight. I grabbed a variety of throwing knives from the weapon room and crossed the large training area to the row of targets.

I was only drawing back my arm to throw my first knife when someone stepped in front of me. He had a cocky grin and messy blond-brown hair. I blew out an impatient breath, my long bangs blowing out of my bangs.

"What do you want, Cato?"

Cato's grin got wider and he slipped one of his arms around my shoulders. "I was _hoping _that you might want to do a little one-on-one sword fight with me?"

I shrugged out of his hold. "No. I don't do swords. Just knives."

"You know, you've gotta have a _variety _of weapons!"

"I do. Daggers, throwing knives, hunting knives, butterfly knives, folding knives, machetes-"

"Alright, alright," Cato said, raising his hands in surrender. "If you won't do a sword one-on-one, why don't you come back to my place and we'll make up a little one-on-one of our own?"

I scoffed. "No way in hell. Besides, do you even _have _a place? Don't you just sleep at whatever girl's house you decided to rape that night?"

Cato chuckled. "Rape? I don't think so. It's a mutual decision. They _ask _for it."

"Okay. I really don't need the dirt on your sex life. So just leave me alone and go play with your oversized silver toy."

"Hey! Swords are _not _toys! They're lean, mean, killing machines. Like me!" Cato's cocky grin reappeared.

"Are you drunk?" I asked Cato.

Cato dropped the cockiness. "Surprisingly, no. Why do you ask? You want to _get _me drunk?" he asked, his cockiness making a quick return.

I rolled my eyes. "I was just wondering, because most people don't act this stupid unless they're drunk." I shoved past Cato and made my way to the drinking fountain to fill up my water bottle.

"Clove. Hey, wait." Cato, much to my exasperation, followed me to the drinking fountain. "I'm sorry, maybe I can make it up with dinner at-"

I sighed and flicked one of my smaller knives over my shoulder, knowing it would at least skim by him.

"Ow! Shit, Clove!" Cato was looking at his forearm, where blood was dripping, thanks to the sharpness of my knife.

"Hey, hey, what's going on here?"

My face brightened as I saw my cousin, Pettyfer, coming towards us with a grin on his face. He looked at Cato's arm and feigned concern. "Oh, Cato, did you get rejected again?" he asked in a baby voice.

Cato picked my forgotten knife off the grown and threw it at Pettyfer, where it stuck in his upper shoulder. Pettyfer looked at it, interested, then merely plucked it out of his arm and paid no attention to the torrent of blood falling from his shoulder.

"Nice aim. Anyway, Clove," he said, turning back to me, "Mom wants you back my house."

"Really? What for?" I asked. Pettyfer's mother was the wife of my real mother's brother's sister, and her house was basically where I spent most of my time when I wasn't training.

"I don't know, but does it matter? Borgio stole some of the alcohol from that old bar, and it's just been sitting on the counter, waiting for us to drink it."

I laughed and followed Pettyfer out of the gym. I looked over my shoulder to invite Cato along, but he was already twirling his sword handle around in his hands. He's actually pretty hilarious to have around when he's not hitting on me.

"Has anyone ever told you your name is extremely gay?" I asked Pettyfer.

He laughed. "Yes. You, every time I see you."

I smiled and punched his arm.

We completed the short walk to Pettyfer's house and let ourselves in. His two other brothers, Borgio and Gunner, were lounging on the huge worn out couch that separated the kitchen from the living room.

"Hello, hellhound," fifteen-year-old Gunner greeted me.

"Salutations, shitface," I answered back, plopping down next to him.

"Pettyfer tell you about the stuff Borgio scored?"

"Yeah. Is that some of it?" I asked, eyeing the bottle Gunner held in his hand.

He nodded slowly. "Thanks," I said, taking the bottle and draining half of it. "I needed that."

Gunner shook his head, chuckling.

"What?" I asked innocently. "I'm saving you from a bad lifestyle. You're too young to be drinking this stuff.-"

"Um, you are too, smartass. You're only one year older than me."

"Hey! It doesn't matter how _much _older I am; I get to be entitled to whatever the hell you're _not _entitled to!"

Gunner rolled his eyes and punched me, and I took out my knife and raked it down his thigh. Like Pettyfer, Gunner paid no attention to it.

"Oh, Clove, there you are!" my aunt Griselda floated into the room. With her flowy dresses, multiple piercings, and carefree attitude, she was just another member of my family that looked like she didn't belong in District Two. But unlike Leila, she actually didn't grow up here. She was originally the daughter of District Twelve merchants that, very unusually, moved to the Capitol when she was young. But one year when she was older, she was invited to the ultra-exclusive Victor's Ball after the Games and fell in love with my uncle, the victor, and moved back to Two with him. Cheesy, I know, but that's how it goes. She's kind of kooky, and her Capitol taste certainly shows through Borgio's and Pettyfer's names. She always says the name Borgio just "floated out of her mingling tastebuds" while Pettyfer was named for some big actor in the Capitol. But when Gunner was born, however, my uncle refused to name his last son a "God-forbidden Capitol name," so the name Gunner was chosen.

Griselda greeted me with her usual "Clove, I'm so happy you found your way here without any turmoil" and gracefully sat down beside me.

"What is that you're drinking?" she asked me, looking at the half-full bottle in my hand suspiciously.

"I, uh, it's Gunner's," I said quickly, thinking that for the first time _ever, _Griselda might chew us out for underage drinking.

But instead of reprimanding us, she swept the bottle into her own hands and tipped it down her throat, emptying it. "Oh, that's good stuff," she sighed. "Did you get any more?" she asked Borgio.

"In there," he said, nodding towards the kitchen.

Griselda got up, swaying slightly, indicating she'd had more to drink that just half a beer, and began walking towards the kitchen. When she came back with a bottle for each of us, she pushed a tape into the VCR player.

"Now Clove and Pettyfer, I thought you might want to watch these, since you're planning on volunteering in the next two years."

The video Griselda put in was a recording of my uncle's Games, one of the most vicious of them all. Pettyfer, Gunner, and I stared at the TV, transfixed. We'd already seen this multiple times, of course, but these were one of those Games that you could watch over and over and still be fascinated by each hunt, each kill, each new terror the Gamemakers brought out for the tributes.

Borgio got up and went outside; being twenty four, he didn't need to see the different strategies and secrets that the Hunger Games held. Just like us, he had been training all his life for the Games, but when he was about seventeen the Head of Training came to him and told him that he was so beyond the other kids that he could probably win the Games in one day with one hand tied behind his back. The Head told him that maybe he should give someone else a chance at volunteering, and offered to give Borgio a job as a trainer. Borgio took it, and that's what he's been doing ever since.

Gunner, only fifteen, will probably volunteer in a few years, but still, he loved to see all the blood of every kill, just like most of the population of District Two, one of the only districts that actually _enjoyed _the Games.

…

On my way home from Pettyfer's house, one of those annoying beggars came up to me. And it wasn't one of those half-dead poor, pathetic beggars; it was a forty-something greasy-looking man with tattoos up and down his arms. You know, the normal District Two beggars.

"Spare change? Spare change, ma'am?" he asked gruffly, holding out his bruised hands.

I shook the few coins I had in my pocket into his hands and started to walk away, but he followed me.

"Is that all you can give me, girl? Maybe you can stay with me tonight-"

"Ugh, fuck off," I said, shoving him into the streets. I guess there are really a lot of bad people in this neighborhood.

Including me, of course.


End file.
